


Second Chance

by actuallyfeanor



Series: Fëanor in the Third Age [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Apart from the obvious addition of Fëanor, Bittersweet Ending, Canonical Character Death, Deep Conversations, Fix-it AU of sorts, Fëanor in Bastard Mode(TM), Fëanor in the Third Age, Fëanor wants revenge, Galadriel is NOT amused, Gandalf is a Fëanor fanboy, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Linguistic hate, Mandos however is quite possibly amused, Mostly Canon Compliant, References to historical kinslayings, Sass, Sauron gets more than he bargained for, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-05-15 07:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19291318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallyfeanor/pseuds/actuallyfeanor
Summary: Fëanor returns from Mandos in the Third Age and finds himself tangled up in the War of the Ring, fighting for revenge and redemption.





	1. Lothlorien

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-up to [The Palantír](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17904797), which was supposed to be a one-shot until I realised that there was potential for a much longer story there. This is for everyone who read the original story and messaged me asking for more.

Once again he walked the Earth, though he did not know why he had been allowed to return. _A second chance_ , Mandos had called it. "A second chance at what?" he had asked when his fëa was violently torn from its monotonous half-existence in the Halls to appear before the Vala. Mandos never laughed but now he looked faintly amused. _Freedom_.

Whatever twisted game Mandos was playing, Fëanor wanted no part in it. In all his years in the Halls, watching the tide of war sweep wave upon wave of new spirits into the endless gloom, he only ever wanted one thing. Revenge. When his sons arrived, one by one, broken and shivering in the dark, he felt his fury grow like a flame within him. He cursed Morgoth and every servant of evil, and he cursed Mandos and the Valar for his imprisonment. Though Morgoth was beyond his reach now, doomed to the cold and dark of the Void, his servant Sauron still walked the earth. Oh, how he had longed to be alive again, to march upon the fortress of the Enemy and demand retribution for the wrongs his family had suffered. But not like this. Not tossed like a windblown leaf into a storm, for an unknown purpose and at the mercy of forces beyond his control. However, when a rift in reality opened to let him step out, re-embodied and fully clothed, in the middle of a grassy field in what he could only assume was Lothlorien, he had to appreciate Mandos' sense of humour. Galadriel had been less appreciative when the somewhat suprised guards brought him to Caras Galadhon.

"As if Sauron wasn't enough of a curse, the Valar have decided to burden me with you, of all people?" She regarded him as one would a particularly nasty bug. Fëanor had to admit that Finarfin's daughter had done well for herself. Resplendent in white and gold, she was every inch the queen she, as a descendant of Finwë, was born to be, despite laying no claim to the royal title. For a brief moment he wondered why she had never tried to claim the High King's throne for herself, but then again, wearing that crown had a tendency to decrease your life expectancy. Maedhros had been wise to give it up, even if it had meant letting Fingolfin have it. Galadriel too had grown wise, it seemed. No longer the hot-headed, ambitious, young woman who had rushed headlong into exile only for a chance to carve out a realm of her own in the terra incognita of Beleriand, Melian's tutelage and the long years of war and loss had tempered her rebellious spirit, just as he himself had gained some perspective over the course of three ages trapped in the Halls of Mandos. _We were all so very young back then. Young and foolish, believing ourselves to be invincible._

A queen Galadriel was not, but the land she ruled was certainly befitting of one. Lothlorien in early spring was glorious. Bathed in soft sunlight, the foliage rustled in a soft breeze. Everything seemed fresh and new, and yet eternal. There was something in the air; a faint echo of enchantment, foreign, yet oddly familiar. It reminded Fëanor of someone, though he knew not who. Then he spotted the pale ring on Galadriel's hand, like a star half-hidden beneath her sleeve, and it all made sense. Of course. Tyelperinquar.

"Good to see you too, niece," he said dryly in Quenya. "I see my grandson's gift has served you well."

Galadriel's gaze involuntarily went to the ring, and her shoulders stiffened.

"Do not worry, I am only here to reclaim what has been stolen from me, not gifts freely given. But do not forget that through the blood of the House of Fëanor, your people has been kept safe in these woods. And so I only ask for the smallest of favours in return, favours that you will find it easy to grant once you hear me out."

Her expression was inscrutable. "You yourself have no right to ask anything of those whose kin are dead because of your deeds. However, for the sake of Celebrimbor, I will listen to what you have to say. Though I would advise you to speak quickly, and in Sindarin this time. There are many here, my husband amongst them, who would like nothing more than to see your head parted from your body. Fortunately for you, kinslaying is not the way of the Sindar."

Fëanor forced himself to ignore the obvious jabs. He had not expected a warm welcome. Mentioning Tyelperinquar had been a shot in the dark, but it seemed to have worked for now.

"Though little news reaches Mandos from the lands of the living, I have gleaned enough from the new arrivals to understand that Sauron has returned and is planning an assault on all those not already under his sway. I can only hope that your hatred of Morgoth's lieutenant is greater than your dislike of me. If that should be the case, you will find that we have a common enemy. Do not scorn the aid of one who has passed through the Halls of Mandos, who once shut his door in the face of the Black Enemy, who knows the tricks and lies of Morgoth's lieutenant better than he himself does. All I ask of you is news about the situation we are dealing with, some maps of these lands, provisions for seven days, and a decent sword. Grant me this, and I will be on my way." He spoke the last two sentences in Westron, a language he had picked up from some of the new arrivals in Mandos. There had been little else to occupy his mind with during his imprisonment there, and as a result he was now fluent in Westron and Adunaic, with a passable knowledge of Khuzdul, thanks to Curufin.

Galadriel was watching him with what looked like a glimmer of interest. To her right, Celeborn too wore the same expression. Fëanor could only guess at what thoughts were passing between the two of them. He had no wish to grovel before them. Finally it was Celeborn who spoke.

"And if we should refuse your request?"

"Then I will have no other choice but to stick around for a while."

"We could kill you," Celeborn said. Fëanor was almost certain it was an empty threat. Almost. 

"I am willing to take my chances. After your first death, the novelty wears off." He hoped they wouldn't call his bluff. Mandos had been unpleasant, to say the least.

"Besides," he added, "the Valar have decided to send me back for a reason. I do not think they would look kindly upon someone who thwarted their plans, which I am fairly certain did not involve me staying here." _And you certainly cannot afford to offend the Valar_ , he added so that only Galadriel could hear.

"We will give you what you have asked of us," Galadriel said. "On one condition: You will do everything in your power to bring down the Enemy so that the Free Peoples of Middle Earth may once again enjoy peace and prosperity. Consider this a payment of the blood debt you owe the Sindar."

 _What would you have me do, niece? Swear an oath?_ This time she flinched, and replied in the same manner, her melodious voice resounding in his mind. _I trust your honour no further than you can toss a dwarf. However, I do put my faith in your insufferable arrogance and your hatred of the Enemy. And in your loyalty to your family. It was never just about the Silmarils, was it? All that blind rage and thirst for vengeance; a lot of it was for the sake of your father._ Fëanor wondered greatly at her perceptiveness, but made no reply. Galadriel continued. _Celebrimbor was everything you and his father should have been. Kind, generous and levelheaded. I grieved when I learnt of his fate. Now the Valar seem to have given you a chance to avenge him, like you tried to avenge Finwë. Therefore I will aid you, but bear in mind, Fëanáro, that everything I now do is for Celebrimbor's sake._


	2. Farewell to Lórien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor gets an update on the political situation of Middle Earth and gains some respect for his niece.

Gradually the dense foliage gave way to open sky, and Fëanor beheld the sun in all its splendour for the very first time. His breath caught in his chest. There was so much warmth, so much light radiating from it, from that blazing orb in the sky, that he almost cried out in joy. Here was the fruit of Laurelin, still casting its golden glow upon the earth, high above the toil and troubles of mortal Men and Dark Lords. The Valar – those thrice-damned Valar – he had thought them selfish for coveting his Silmarils, and yet they had put this light, this living source of life, high in the sky for all to see, sharing the last fruit of the Two Trees with good and evil creatures alike.

Not caring that Galadriel and Celeborn and their guards were watching him, Fëanor fell to his knees, arms stretched out wide as if to embrace the sunlight, to gather as much of it as he could. He imagined Nerdanel dancing in a sunny field - oh, would he not have given the world to see her hair shimmer like fire as the strands caught the sun's rays, to hear her laugh again, to lie with her in the grass and revel in the warm caress of summer. There were tears clouding his eyes now, sadness mixed with anger at what he had lost, what they had taken away from him; he had almost forgotten what it was like to be alive, the smell of the earth beneath his feet, the blood coursing through his veins, the simmering rage that threatened to consume his hröa, should he give in and unleash it upon the world. Volatile, Fingolfin had once called him, but how could he not be when he felt so much, so strongly and all at once. Besides, Fingolfin was one to speak, the way he in a fit of rage had challenged Morgoth himself to single combat. Fëanor could only asssume that it was a trait that ran in the family.

But Maitimo - Maedhros - had been different. More levelheaded, less proud, willing to sacrifice the kingship for the safety of his people. It pained Fëanor to admit it, but he had slowly come to realise that his eldest son, for precisely that reason, had been much better suited for leadership than he himself had been. Tyelperinquar too. His grandson's name - Celebrimbor, as he had preferred in life - was still remembered with fondness in Lothlorien, amongst the Sindar and Silvan folk, of all people. A wise and noble lord, worthy of a place amongst the greatest of the Noldor. It was a strange feeling, that of walking in Celebrimbor's footsteps, wearing a sword he had crafted thousands of years ago in Eregion. The blade was unmistakably Fëanorian. Even without the star sigil engraved on the hilt, Fëanor would have recognised its creator any day. The way the metal was folded back on itself - almost exactly the way he had once taught Curufin, though Celebrimbor had made some changes of his own, Fëanor noted with approval. According to Galadriel, the sword had been a brought to Lothlorien by envoys from Eregion, as a gift for Celeborn. A kingly gift indeed when coming from the forges of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, but made for the Noldorin style of fighting, and so the Lord of Lothlorien had found the balance of the weapon different from what he usually favoured. Thus it had been left to gather dust in a storeroom, all but forgotten until Fëanor had made his appearance and requested a sword. 

Galadriel had been true to her word and had given him everything he had asked for, along with a few more well-aimed jabs, which it had taken Fëanor a good amount of effort to ignore. Though laced with venom, the advice she gave was good, and he had taken a great interest in what she could tell him of the ongoings in Rohan and Gondor. Of particular interest was the treachery of Saruman the White, for there were rumours about what might lie hidden in Orthanc, the black tower from which the wizard stretched out his hand over Rohan.

As Galadriel spoke, he soon perceived that she was deliberately keeping something from him. She had made no mention of the Enemy's Ring, the one Isildur had taken from the hand of Sauron. So he had listened to what she said, and to what she did not say, and when he had listened for a while, he asked the question on his mind.

"Tell me, how can we have any hope at all of defeating Sauron if his Ring of Power is still lost? Even Gil-galad and Elendil could not destroy him, and they had an army a hundred times the size of what can be mustered by Gondor and Rohan nowadays, if your calculations are correct." They undoubtedly were. Galadriel had always had a talent for such things.

"It seems to me," he continued, "that you seek to keep something from me regarding this Ring. There is hope in your eyes when you speak of the impending war – hope that cannot be explained by anything other than some hidden advantage."

"You perceive much, Fëanáro. Perhaps too much for your own good. The Ring has been found, and not by the Enemy. Events have been set in motion that might give us the faintest glimmer of hope."

The Ring had been found! Fëanor could barely contain his excitement.

"Where is it now? Who commands the power of this thing?"

"That I will not tell you, for I fear the darkness in your heart as I fear the darkness in my own. What gift of foresight has been given me, tells me that your road lies westward, towards Isengard and its war with Rohan. Heed my advice and do not let your mind dwell on the Ring, for it will destroy you if given the chance." The genuine terror in Galadriel's voice surprised him. She must have been shaken to the core by whatever it was she had seen – or experienced? Fëanor decided to hazard another guess.

"You have seen the Ring yourself?"

A nod of assent.

"And I suppose you were tempted to take it?"

All of a sudden Fëanor found himself wondering if she had not in fact taken it. Would he have noticed if she had been in posession of the One Ring? Was the mention of Isengard merely a ploy to send him on his way while she used the Ring for her own purposes, and the terror he had seen merely fear that he should discover her secret? The thought saddened him; Galadriel, fair and noble, falling under the shadow of Sauron's treachery. And yet her mind might be strong enough to bend the Ring to her own will, to use it against Sauron instead of in his service, as she already wielded the power of Nenya, the Ring of Water. Fëanor shuddered involuntarily. He was entering a world he only knew from second-hand accounts, and a game in which the rules seemed to be changing every minute. If Galadriel, his guide to this new world, could not be trusted, then every step he took might lead him towards some trap of the Enemy's devising.

At once it was as though the ever-brilliant light of Lórien faded. A cold wind entered the house and made Fëanor shiver. Galadriel's voice was faint, distant when she answered him.

"It was offered to me. A gift, freely given. I could have overthrown Sauron. I could have ruled the world, establised an eternal realm of beauty and learning. Oh, I was tempted. In that instant I desired nothing else but to take the Ring and use it to build a second Eldamar on this side of the sea." Her voice rose, like wind upon the ocean, like storms sweeping the land, like the pouring rain, and in her eyes there shone an unearthly light.

"But the Ring is evil, and it would turn all my good and noble intentions to evil. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. It became clear to me that he who offered me the Ring of his own volition, who was willing to give it away, to hide it, to never use it, was the only one who should ever be entrusted with it. Therefore I let it go and doomed Lothlórien to the same fate as all other elven realms east of the sea, and I must live with the grief of seeing my home fade and dwindle, praying to Elbereth and the stars above that I made the right choice."

There was no lie in what she said, Fëanor noted with a sigh of relief, at least none that he could discover. Her grief moved his heart to pity and compassion, for he had felt the same grief when he was young and discovered that nothing could last forever in Arda Marred. At the same time he found himself regarding his niece with a newfound respect. She had indeed grown in wisdom through the years. The Galadriel he knew in Valinor would not have hesitated to take the Ring, of that he was fairly certain.

Her voice echoed in his mind. _Now you know. Even I, who count myself amongst the wise, found the Ring too perilous. Faced with my own pride and ambition, I came far too close to stumbling. Take care, Fëanáro. Your pride and desire for revenge have already caused your downfall once._ Anger welled up in him at that, and he almost snarled at her. However, though it infuriated him, she was right. Thousands of years in Mandos, thousands of regrets – at times he wondered who he blamed more for the ruin of his family: Morgoth or himself. Therefore he held back the scathing reply at the tip of his tongue, and bowed his head in assent. This time he would be careful. This time the Enemy would not know what hit him until it was too late.

After his conversation with Galadriel, Fëanor had wasted little time in gathering his meagre belongings – a dark grey cloak, a waterskin, a length of rope, a knife, needle and thread, a small cooking pot and some dried meat – into a bundle and informing the nearest guardsman that he wished to be shown the way to the forest outskirts. Mandos had of his own volition clad his hröa in a comfortable outfit of linen and wool and some sturdy boots of surprisingly good quality upon his arrival in Lothlórien, but everything else was a gift from Galadriel. He had not been offered any lembas, the waybread which was for the Lady of Lórien alone to give to those she deemed worthy of the honour. It mattered little, for he knew how to find food in the wild, and the Galadhrim had presented him with a simple, unadorned hunting bow and arrows. With the bundle on his back and Celebrimbor’s sword at the hip, he felt ready to face whatever this new, strange world might throw his way.

For unknown reasons Galadriel and Celeborn insisted on accompanying him to the borders of their realm. Perhaps they wished to ensure that he really left Lothlórien, or maybe they had decided to extend common courtesy even to unwanted visitors. But faced with the blinding sunlight at the forest outskirts, Fëanor could not have cared less about their presence, or about the distant threat of Mordor. On his knees in the grass, he reveled in the sensations of his remade body, and wept and laughed for all he had lost and all he had regained.

He had lost track of how much time had passed when a gentle prodding at his mind pulled him out of the maelstrom of raw emotion. Quickly he glanced towards Galadriel who gave him a pointed look. Next to her, Celeborn looked bored and slightly uncomfortable. Fëanor rose gracefully and sauntered over to where they stood.

“I will take my leave of you now, Lord Celeborn,” he said, in Sindarin, but with a less than formal bow towards Galadriel’s husband, whose bored look had been replaced by an expression of intense distaste.

“I will not pretend to be sad to see you go, kinslayer. My wife tells me that you may do some good in the struggle against the Enemy, yet no deed, however noble, on your part will wipe away the blood you spilled at Alqualondë. Be grateful for the aid you have received from the very people who suffered for the actions of you and your kin.”

Without responding, Fëanor turned to Galadriel.

“Farewell, niece. I am glad to see us on the same side in this war. May Elbereth watch over you and your people.”

“May Her blessing go with you too, and may you find what you seek in the end. Should you happen to meet Olórin along the way, tell him that he must go with haste to Minas Tirith, for it has need of his aid. So I have foreseen, and my heart tells me that you too, Fëanáro, will have a part to play there.”

Fëanor bowed again, more respectfully this time, and with one last look towards the gold-clad mallorn trees of Lothlórien, he turned south and began his journey to Isengard, where Saruman waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't originally supposed to be another Galadriel vs Fëanor chapter, but I love writing their interactions and drawing parallels between these two "greatest of the Noldor", so there you go.
> 
> Not abandoned, but I've taken a temporary break from writing to focus on university stuff, so don't expect the next chapter until December, earliest.


End file.
